When Past and Present Collide
by Ms Writer '95
Summary: When a magic-misshape happens, England is forced to relive some of his worst memories to date. With this, he ends up having to revalue his actions and his feelings towards certain Nations. England-Centric. Previously known as "Sankofa".
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Vocabulary (swear words).

_Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me._

.-.-.-.

**SANKOFA**

.-.-.-.

CHAPTER ONE

"Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world's weight he had never chosen to bear."

(F. Scott Fitzgerald, _The Beautiful and Damned_)

Night had fallen by the time he finally got home, and rain poured heavily from the dark clouds that had been hovering over London since dawn. Cursing, the blond man ran to the porch of his house, seeking protection from the rain. "Bloody rain," He cursed, but the anger in his voice was halfhearted, at best; he was already used to the unpredictable weather of his country.

Huffing, he carded his fingers through his blond hair. A few minutes were needed for him to fish for his keys, which just served to aggravate the man further. And when he finally opened the door with a frustrated sigh, he was too tired to be angry anymore; too tired to feel much at all, in truth. It had been a very trying day, he mused while removing his rain-soaked waistcoat. But, then again, these past few decades all days became a bit of a blur in his mind; one differed not from its progenitors or successors in no shape, form or content. Boring, all of them. And he was always – always – tired, so much so that some days he could not stand the thought of getting up, of doing something, at all.

"I'm getting old" He murmured morosely. "Or maybe it's the world that's turning on a faster pace than I can match..."

A cuppa and then bed, he decided as he entered the house with a sigh and a curved figure.

The house – _his_ house – was a small manor on the outskirts of his capital, London. And, secluded and inconspicuous, it had been his for a couple of centuries already. He had only definitely moved in, however, at the beginning of the seventies – when there were only a handful of his colonies left, and staying in the old one (although he much preferred it) was simply a waste of money and awfully painful due to the memories. Before that, he had used it during WW1 and WW2 to be nearer to his capital and thus any meetings he scheduled with the Allies.

The smile he had at the recollection of his old house, full of children – _his children_ – screaming, or playing, or arguing, or simply being children, was bittersweet, so he forced himself to think about other things. Like the tea he would share with Her Majesty and the Duchess of Cambridge in two days time, on this Wednesday. If the latter hadn't child, that is. The thought of a baby, the first in many a decades, brightened him considerably, and he considered himself yet well enough to make both tea and a batch of scones. And it was with thoughts of a similar nature – of holding the young prince or princess, giving food to him or her, playing with him or her – that he threw his waistcoat on the floor, followed by his suit, a ruined tie, brown dress shoes with big rain-spots on them and wet socks, before all but running to his kitchen.

He only delayed his quest a little while to admire his hallway. Not that it was any different from when he left it at six in the morning sharp. No, there wasn't; not even a single particle of dust was out of place. It had been the same for one, ten, twenty years. And if it was up to him it would remain so. He, after all, liked it just the way it was. The floor of dark cherry wood, the heavy – only a few hues darker than the floor – furniture, the carmine wallpaper with intricate designs on it. And then there were the few antiques he kept in the house, remains from his Empire days; the old Chinese vase near the threshold, the Persian rug that covered his floor, a few paintings from France and Italy that decorated the rooms of his house.

With a small – pained, sad, _forced_ – smile he resumed his way. And as soon as he crossed to the kitchen, he started to fret. Looking for his favorite porcelain cup, which had an extraordinaire hand painting on it and bits of gold on the mouth and bottom, the perfect tea for such an tiresome day – Darjeeling, without at doubt in the Brit's eyes –, how strong would his tea be, the flavor of his scones; served to distract him from darker thoughts. When he put his apron on, and started to cook, he concentrated solely on the task at hand, quite aware of his natural talent to mess even the simplest of plates. He dutifully read the instructions twice, and separated the ingredients, later on mixing them together with the utmost care. He knew the biggest reason he messed up so badly on his cooking was due to, well – nerves. He got anxious, and extremely nervous at the thought of cooking; centuries of nations like France, China, and many others telling him how awful his abilities in the kitchen were had made him doubt himself every step of the way. But, this time, _just this once_, he was determined to get it right.

He would've liked to say it was "just because". But that wasn't the truth. Not even close.

He wanted that, at the very least, one thing ended up okay on this chilly Monday. Differently of how it had been going on so far as he and the Prime Minister got on a verbal fight about the PM's plans towards the United Kingdom; especially about Scotland's plebiscite, and foreign policy (the US in particular). Or how he received another cursed letter from his _beloved and caring_ brother Ireland, which was promptly thrown in the bright flames of his fireplace – _Bon Voyage_, as the frog would say (and England would never admit to knowing and speaking fluent French). Or even how his secretary brought him cold tea, or mistook his Marlboro for another cheap mark of cigarettes. And maybe not the worst but close enough: he had forgotten his umbrella. This last one still got to him. _How could he?!_ He was the _effing_ country, for God's sake, and as such he knew better than anyone how unpredictable and rainy England was.

Sighing heavily, he put the batch in the oven. And with attention he set the clock to chime exactly in – minutes. Chuckling a bit half-heartedly, the Brit went to his tea. Almost ready, he thought, the pad of his fingers lightly caressing the handle of the cup. "Now," He whispered as he removed the leaves of tea from the box and let it rest on the saucer while he put the water to boil and retrieved both milk and honey for his drink."Now," He repeated, breathing in deeply as he dropped the mulch in the boiling water. "Now, I just relax" He chortled.

"Forget the PM, forget all the slips, forget _them_," England told himself. "_Relax_,"

It was a worth a try, he supposed. And he had been quite stressed these past few weeks. Maybe he should call someone to go out drinking with. Denmark and Prussia, he knew, would always accept. And they were fun to hang out with, from time to time. Even if he did resent the former a bit for conquering him and the latter did tend to act as an egocentric baboon with delusions of grandeur most of the time.

He was snapped out of his train of thought when the kettle went off.

Quickly putting his gloves, which had Flying Mint Bunny proudly embroidered on them, on, he removed the whistling boiler from the stove mouth and put it on another that wasn't lit. He turned the stove off, and without missing a bit, poured milk in his cup. No way was he ruining one of his finest pieces because he was inattentive. The honey would be put last, so he did not mind it yet. Instead, he looked for a spoon to mix the contents in his cup. "Where, where, where," He repeated like a mantra, going through his drawers. "Ah! Here!" He shouted victoriously, the corner of his lips lifting upwards in a small smile.

Taking his gloves off, he caught a kitchen towel and wrapped it around the kettle's handle, so his hand would not burn. Soon enough he had a perfect cup of Darjeeling tea in front of him, and as he looked at the amber liquid, deciding to forgo the honey, the alarm of the clock sounded, startling him. "Already?" He exclaimed a bit surprised.

Normally he would leave the scones for much longer! Then again, normally everything would go wrong.

Licking his lips is anticipation he left his tea and quickly bent over his white stove, opened the lid and stared at the insides with narrowed eyes. And sniffed. And when there was no smell of burnt food, he did it once again just to be on the safe side (And because he really couldn't believe _he had done it right_!).

"Yes! _YES_! Take _that_, frog!" He celebrated with a small grin on his face, which was flushed in elation.

He put on his gloves one more time, and removed the fresh – _and perfect_ – batch of scones, putting it on the table, followed by his cup of tea, and jam. Then he sat. Looking at all the food – edible, at that – in front of him, however, he found himself without hunger. The mere thought of actually eating made him nauseous.

It was with a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders that England realized he was in for a very long night. "Great," He grumbled as he roughly grabbed his cuppa and began to drink "Just bloody great,"

Life wasn't fair.

He should have realized as soon as his scones hadn't burnt that something was wrong – oh so very wrong.

.-.-.-.

"It's all in the mind"

(George Harrison)

Still tossing and turning after a good half hour, England finally gave up and moved to a sitting position. With his green eyes closed, he sank in the many fluffy pillows that adorned his king sized bed; a sigh escaped his parted lips. And his hands fisted the covers over his legs and waist, clutching tightly until the knuckles were white.

His green irises travelled through the whole of his private chambers, place where no one but himself was allowed to enter. The deep red walls, the cherry wood floor, the golden details here and there, as well as the antique furniture – wood, all details hand carved –, told stories of times long gone. And when England saw one book resting innocently enough in his windowsill, his breath got caught in his throat. _Good God_, he would have exclaimed hadn't a lump formed in his gorge. A bittersweet smile pulled at his lips as the balls of his hands pressed in his eyes. _That_, he supposed (though there was little room for doubt), _was_ _the cause of his uneasy_. He must have removed it from its place and looked through a few pages, drunk most probably at the time, for had he been sober he wouldn't dare touch the thing with a ten-foot pole. "Good gracious!" He groaned, as he threw his head back, hitting the headboard of his head with a muffled 'THUD'.

"Christ!" He shouted as he hastily got the covers of himself. He would get rid of the ruddy thing, _once and for all_, he decided. When his feet were thrown off the mattress and he made to get off the bed, however, he stumbled and toppled. His knees painfully connected with the wood, and he gasped in surprise as he found himself face first with the floor. Looking behind himself, he saw that one of his feet was loosely wrapped in the covers, and he cursed while getting up and massaging his tingling face. "Bloody hell," He grumbled as he slowly made his way to the book.

But when he finally got closer, not even two feet from where the book should be – _was_ –, he blinked. And then he blinked a few more times before rubbing his eyes, and gaping at the empty space. "Did my eyes play a trick on me?" He asked himself out loud, his green eyes clearly displaying the confusion he felt. "Maybe it's the sleep speaking." He tried to reason.

But he wasn't convinced, not one bit. He had seen a book – that _album_ – right there; he could have sworn he had. Frowning, England thought that maybe one of his faerie friends might have tried to prank him. If that was the case, he thought with a sour expression, he would have to talk with them about _ambits_. And remind them that, even for them, some rooms in his house were _off_ _limits_.

Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes with force. _No time like the present_, he thought while pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, right," He snorted, opening his eyes slowly to see that his room was still empty but for him and his usual things.

Even if it were only 21:38 PM, he was tired – exhausted, really. And he could talk to the faeries tomorrow... But he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully until all this 'mystery' was solved. He would have a serious talk with his friends, ask them if putting the goddamn album there was their idea of fun, and then go back to bed. It would be quick, he was sure. In no time he would be back in his bed, sleeping serenely. Like a bloody angel, really.

Stretching his arms above his head and letting out a satisfied moan, England made his way to the door, already thinking of places where his friends could be. The kitchen, the bathrooms, the library, his study, the living and the dining room were quickly discarded. As they were the few rooms he actually used nowadays, his friends tried not to play in them (too much). England made his first stop at the wine cellar, and then he went to a few unused guest rooms. No one ever stayed the night at his house, not anymore at least, so the rooms were pretty much abandoned.

No. That was incorrect. France had stayed in one of these rooms during the last few months of World War II, and a few more after the end. He had also housed Lady Diana and Thatcher for a few days at times. And before that a few of his colonies had resided in some of these rooms, although they weren't meant for guests at the time... Lips twitching upwards, he had to admit these rooms had seen quite distinguished guests. _No more though_. Yes, no more, because no one bothered to stay the night when they visited him.

America would show up unexpectedly, spend the day with England, and then go his merry way when night fell. His ex-colonies would always stay in a hotel when they came to London, and they only came because of World Conferences. France would come, bother England and disappear to God-knew-where. His brothers didn't like him all that much, and the feelings were reciprocated; He and Ireland weren't on speaking terms these past few months, Scotland just visited to piss him off, Wales preferred his sheep, and Northern Ireland was too busy with Ireland and trying to assert his independence from England himself to wait upon. In the end England was always alone in his manor.

The thing is: _he hated to be alone_. Since he could remember himself as a personification, he never had (good) company, and was always in the middle of some conflict. And most of the people he had close by just liked to push him around; his brothers, Denmark, and Rome, being only a few examples. And all the people that actually _liked_ him, and that he also liked having nearby by, of course, either left him or died. His mother, who passed away shortly after he was born, was a prime example; His Monarchs whom he got close to because of a lack of friendships with other nations, and because he actually cared for them; America and some of his ex-colonies, as well.

And, right now, he couldn't help but feel a little frightened. He couldn't find any of his magical friends. And it scared him, because even though he was screaming their names from the top of his lungs, they did not come, neither hair nor faerie dust could be seen from them. "Erline!"

He couldn't hear their wings flapping around, quiet as the sound was, and he couldn't hear their mischievous giggles. "Marigold!" Fear gnawed at his old heart like a famished beast.

"Faylinn! Alston! Gelsey!" He shouted frantically, heart beating fast inside his ribcage, painfully so. And his eyes widened to the point it seemed they would pop right out. He would have lied if he said he did not feel his eyes watering after the continual silence in his residence. "England?" He heard someone call, and, startled, quickly turned towards the voice. Only to meet a small faerie dressed in different hues of maroon.

"Braun? Whe- where are the others?" He asked, not caring an ounce if the little faerie saw the messed up state he was in or if she heard him stutter. "Where have they gone, Braun?"

She fluttered around the Brit, her paper-thin wings beating frantically as her face contorted in confusion. "What do you mean, England? They have gone back to –shire to welcome a new faerie in our ranks... I stayed because I would only hinder them," Said she, clearly upset at the last part and looking bitterly at her bandaged leg. "Didn't they warn you? I was sure Faylinn had written a letter, a note..." Braun said, clearly surprised, and by the way she scrunched up her face, England knew she was thinking hard about something. "I have to go back to sleep in a few minutes; rest, you know... But wait here a moment, yes?"

And then she was gone. And England stayed rooted to his place. _How...intriguing_, he thought. That his night was unraveling to be such a mystery (And he hated mysteries almost as much as he hated surprises, but a bit less than he hated pranks of any kind) when he first thought of it something as simple and common place as his faerie friends looking for some fun. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tried to reason what was happening in his house-hold.

First, the album had been in his windowsill. He assumed it had been the faeries. When he went to chastise them, however, he discovered they had been gone (For how long though? And since when?). So how had the album somehow appeared in his private chambers? How had it disappeared? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Had stress finally drove his mind over the edge and he was now hallucinating? Massaging his temples he postponed the answers to some – if not all – questions. He would see the letter, and then he would go to see if the album was in its place. And if it was-

_He was going to get rid of the album once and for all._

"England! England! Here! I found it!" Braun exclaimed happily, startling him out of his thoughts. A folded piece of paper was being thoughtfully shaken in front of (and almost rubbed on) his nose. "I told you they had written!" She stated contentedly, puffing up her chest and looking mighty proud of herself.

"I must go, I fear. But I hope everything will turn out okay with you, England! Bye-Bye,"

And then she was gone, and England found himself alone in the desert hallway once again. "Oh well" He said while reading the letter, that, true to Braun's words, fully explained where they had gone, why, and for how long they would remain in –shire. "Dear-"

"I worried myself silly for nothing, eh?" He questioned, a small – if shaky – smile pulling at his lips. "One less thing for me to concern over, I reckon" He finished with a surer smile, although it was soon wiped out of his face and replaced by a frown.

Carefully, he folded the paper on the same marks, and put it in the pocket of his baby-blue pajamas'. "Time to find that album, then"

.-.-.-.

"The past is never where you think you left it."  
(Katherine Anne Porter)

His footsteps were silent as he made his way downstairs. Although in the current stillness of his house, his soundless steps could easily be heard. England minded each step, and when one of the wooden plates protested, he stopped, afraid. Of what, though, he did not know.

It had been years since he last visited this particular library. It held some of his most precious books. And the Brit had made sure that, should America or Sealand ever visit with their rambunctious selves, they wouldn't be able to find it. Unlike the library he had on the second floor, the biggest by far, or the one in the basement, that was the home to his magic-theory, spells, and potions books; this one was the place where he put his most precious books, books thought lost forever by the world, and his own dearest memories. This place was where he hid the photos of his precious children, from Australia to New Zealand to Cameroon to India. He also had pictures from Sealand and Hong Kong. And Egypt and Seychelles and...

"Bloody hell" England cursed as he made an abrupt halt. His hands, he could tell even though he couldn't see them, were dithering. "Damn it!" He inveighed again, clutching his hands together in an effort to control the shaking. His eyes burned, his breath was labored, and England could literally feel the tight mastery he had over himself slipping between his fingers.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to continue until he reigned in himself again, he sat. The wooden steps of the staircase, he noticed with little enthusiasm, were uncomfortably hard, and thus it wasn't long before his bum felt the aftereffects. The only source of light came from his wristwatch, which emitted a sort of green-ish light, and whereupon the Brit's eyes never strayed far. Not astoundingly, time practically dragged by. And England was man enough to acknowledge it took him torturous forty-three minutes to get his bearings together again, although he would never ever confess it out loud, not to his friends, be they human or not, and much less to fellow nations. The last sure as all hell did not need any more material to hold over his head.

Being called the black sheep of Europe time and again by France; seeing the scorning glances China still directed at him sometimes; the burning anger in Spain's eyes, bordering on hate on occasion; his ex-colonies distrust, India in particular; not to forget how long they took to accept him in the European Union. All of it was well-deserved to a point, with the exception of France's taunts, yes, but childish and unfair in modern times. They couldn't keep blaming him for things that happened _centuries_ ago!

He wondered why he still bothered to try and appease them most of time.

Once in a while he felt his blood pumping faster inside his veins, and he had to suppress the need to beat them all to a pulp. Just by the few times this happened, he knew. He hated them. In these moments, solely – he hoped –, he absolutely _despised_ them. _As if they can __**judge**_, he thought angrily, stomping his feet a bit more forcefully than required.

Thank God, the times he felt such strong disagreeable feelings were few and far between. Otherwise he would never be able to have successful dealings and agreements with the other countries.

But he couldn't understand why... Why they feared him so much. Why the distrust? Why the cautiousness? They didn't behave like that with Germany, responsible for not one but two World Wars (Well, sorta). They didn't behave like this with Japan, or France. Heck! They didn't behave like this with Russia. Oh! They feared Russia, but Russia was already half-mad and a psychopath by all means in the other Nations minds. With England? It was as if they expected him to snap. To suddenly turn into his old self: the pirate, the imperialist.

It wasn't a comforting thought, so he willed it away.

When he finally got to his destination, England had half a mind of turning around and going back to his bed. The memories, he knew, were already too close to resurfacing. Too close, dangerously close if his little breakdown fifty minutes ago was anything to go by. And his emotions were spiking out of his control if his loath filled thoughts meant something at all. "But I am already this far, might as well finish the job."

"Never will have to worry with the damn thing again, at least..."

With such convictions and determined to end it all, one hand probing the wall in search for the switcher, and the other in front of him to make sure he would hit nothing, he carried on. His lips quirked upwards, and he did not resist quoting the phrase that became astoundingly famous in these past few years, "Keep calm and Carry on".

The meaning wasn't lost on him. It fitted rather nicely, he had to admit. And a small – tremendously dwarfish in this case – part of his good humor was restored. And lasted until he finally found what he looked for, the interrupter. His eyes, unaccustomed to the light, watered due to the sudden brightness of the room, and a firm scowl was soon plastered on his face. "Should have seen that coming," He grumbled after a few seconds blinking repeatedly, and then grimaced. "Hope that's not a sign of my intellectual prowess diminishing..." He joked.

"I would hate to find myself at the same level as that-" He continued only to pause midsentence. His green eyes taking everything in; from the bookcases that almost touched the ceiling to the cobblestone floor, a testament of how old this place was. Rare books, maps, diaries, and letters filled the shelves, trinkets here and there – invaluable both in historical and price value –, made the place look like one hell of an ancient bookshop. Smiling, England went closer, and as he walked, his fingers touched the books, caressing like an old friend. The pads delayed over one book or another, but never stopped. Searching, searching – searching for a particular bookcase. Smaller than the rest by half its size and much more delicate than the sturdy wood of the rest, it was the odd one of the bunch.

One securely closed under seven keys, and which England had protected with the most powerful wards he had known. Not even his brothers, who shared the same blood, and were gifted with magic, would have been able to surpass them with ease. And they would have already being bloody (literally) and unconscious by the time they trespassed them, too hurt and damaged to even lay a finger on the books inside.

_No, not exactly books_, England reminded himself. Albums and notebooks, some paintings and sketches, filled with memories of times long past, long gone.

Feeling cold sip into his being, as it always did when he came down here, England began praying. Because praying could always ward off against evil spirits or beings that meant harm. He liked The Lord's Prayer (from the Elizabethan Era) well enough. "Our Father which art in heaven," He chanted. "Hallowed be thy name"

England could feel it; the magic he himself had laid there years ago – bare and selvage and with the intention to protect against all but him – seemed to kiss his face, run through his hair, and embrace his body. It fed directly from him to these days, for such magic could not sustain itself for very long without a source. His magic abilities were crippled, but he found the price fair. So what if he couldn't summon demons anymore? So what if he couldn't invoke the wrath of deities over the other nations? What he had here was more important – much, much more important. "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven"

His precious memories, these tokens that proved he had once known true and undiluted happiness. That he wasn't a monster. That he could care for another being. They were infinitely more valuable to England than magical leverage. Or they had been, once upon a time. "Give us our daily bread."

Had been because they now haunted him like a sin, like a black scorch in his otherwise blank life – they made him weak. They were the reasons he mourned and wept, brought down to his knees; they were the reason he was morose and taciturn; a man whose only solace was the bottom of a bottle of liquor – a drunkard. No more, though. Emotions, in his mind, now were equal to weakness. Love was but a fraud. And acceptance was a myth. "And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespasses against us."

_No more, then. No more_. "And lead us not in temptation. But deliver us from evil"

Because the same way they broke free from him, now was _his_ time. It was _his_ time to forget – To turn his back and walk away. Even if there was no one to turn his back to, no one who had stayed by his side. Did they care? England couldn't tell, but he had beaten himself through the years, blaming himself for not being a good brother or father or caretaker (and thus the reason why they left), but no more of that. No more.

This time he would be the one breaking free. And they all could go to hell for all he cared.

"Amen" He finished, approaching the bookcase he had been looking for with hungry eyes. Lime green irises stared with intent the unassuming furniture. Put there last then all others, in the early XIX century. It was completely locked in 1997, after Hong-Kong was handed back to China. And thus it rested, barely touched, for 17 years.

When he finally touched the glass separating him from the possessions inside – _his possessions_ –, it glowed with magic. Bright; warm and cold at the same time, dangerous, volatile – Alive. He felt a rush of emotions; protectiveness, possessiveness, worry, care, happiness, joy, pride, sadness, pain – Love. And so many more, so many he couldn't count them all, couldn't pick one apart and understand what the heck it was. _Had he locked all of this away?_

And then the flashes began. Flashes and images overlapping right in front of his eyes. Memories, _his_ memories. He felt like a nail was being buried in the middle of his forehead, at the same time his head was compressed as if someone was trying to squeeze it to the size of a tennis ball. _God!_, he wanted to scream, but no voice came out of his throat.

Runes, golden in their color and precise in shape and form circled around the bookcase and England himself. And the Brit worried. How long? How long had his magic remained untouched and yet continuously growing in this small container? And when had it become so powerful that it numbed his emotions and clouded his memories? Had it assumed they should be protected? Or maybe-

Before he could finish his trail of thought, however, one last pulse of magic broke all the barriers around the bookcase, and sent England flying to the other side of the room. His back collided with great strength against the stone walls. Black spots grew and diminished in his eyes, the room swayed, and England knew he would pass out. He felt blood slowly streaming down the nape of his neck – _A concussion_. _Damn_.

And then he slid all the way to the floor. Thankfully, the friction between the wall and his clothes stopped his head from hitting the floor too hard. Trinkets fell from the bookcase, now without glass for it was spread – broken in tiny pieces that shone in the dim light of the room – on the floor, as well as a couple of tightly bounded scrolls. A single book, in truth, remained in perfect condition, the rest fallen around with dust on top of them and their pages crumpled and teared – a shame, for they were as old as some countries. With a leather cover, dark brown in color, and wrapped in strings and twines, it rested against the wooden furniture as if nothing had happened.

On the front, the word _ALBUM_, in beautiful calligraphy – obviously engraved a long time ago – could be read. Scratches all over it, though, proved that it had seen better days. Mockingly, it was right in front of the unconscious form of the Englishman.

.-.-.-.

A/N: Hello, there! This is my second attempt at a multi-chaptered story. Unlike FI, this one is centered solely around England. And focuses a whole lot more on his past. Iniatially, it was supposed to be an one-shot. It turned into a five-chaptered story instead. Well. I hope you like it, for I certainly did enjoy writing it. _  
_

Posted: 28/06/2014

Last edited: 28/06/2014

_Leave a review, please!_


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Vocabulary (swear words), a bit of violence, Independence War.

Author Notes at the end of the chapter.

_Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me._

****dream sequence starts after the quote by Mark Z. Danielewski.****

.-.-.-.

**When Past and Present Collide**

.-.-.-.

CHAPTER TWO

"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it."

(J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_)

His conscience trudged its way back to the surface in the very best possible way: sluggishly and carrying a fucking ton of bricks on its back. Just because England was used to it, due to the similar effects war and economic crisis could have on Nations, didn't mean he had to _like_ it. Or know how to deal with it in a "civilized way", as so many of his acquaintances liked to nag about. "FUCK!"

Blinking rapidly, England´s eyes watered as pain blossomed all over his body. _Bloody hell_, he thought, gasping for air in an effort to dull his overenthusiastic nervous system_._

The fact he was in a very uncomfortable position was the first thing he realized after the pain was blocked out; a handy ability he learned through being constantly trampled on when younger and stupider. Trying to roll over so he was lying on his back instead of his side, however, proved to be a grave mistake as his back flared in searing pain. _Oh God! Oh God!_, he thought over and over again as he hastily turned to lay flat on his stomach, back still burning. His pajama's top stuck to his back; the blood gluing the cotton cloth to his skin.

"Damn" He grumbled sullenly, resting his cheek on the cold floor and spying the mess around him with half-lidded eyes. "This'ish goin' to be hell tah clean"

For how long had he been unconscious? Not too long, he supposed, if the way his brain was functioning perfectly was anything to go by. He was well aware that being unconscious for more than one hour had some troublesome consequences.

Green eyes darkened in thought. He was sure that once he had been unconscious for so long that, when he woke up, he had not been himself; A bit slow because of the collateral damage. And without some much needed memories. Huffing, England tried to make the world stop spinning. But as it simply _wouldn't_, England gave up and decided to keep exactly where he was lest he worsened his condition by being stupidly reckless. Giving a small peek at his wrist watch, he confirmed that less than an hour, forty-something minutes to be more precise, had passed. "Great, _effing great_ – Really"

He tried to think of amusing things to pass the time. Reciting poetry in Old-English could only take a man so far, and he could not, under any circumstances, fall asleep. Flexing his fingers and toes to make sure he could still feel and move them, England decided stupidly reckless was better than bored and anxious. So, positioning his arms in a perpendicular fashion against the ground, he threw his weight on them and pushed. A grunt escaped his lips when the Brit finally managed to lever himself in all fours. "DAMN!"

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck!_, he thought as his muscles _burned_. He was out of shape, he knew that. _He knew_. But he didn't think he was _that_ bad. There was a time he would have already been on his feet, sword and gun drawn out and ready for a fight. Not anymore, it seemed; a freaking small explosion took him down. And his limbs ached like there was no tomorrow. _Fan-fucking-tastic_. He could see how this was turning out to be such a wondrous night. He honestly couldn't say which was shittier; his day or his night. _Both_, he decided, _both are turning out to be too fucking awful_. Not even a cuppa of the best tea in the world could make up for the dreary time he was having.

Blinking owlishly, he stared at the ground beneath him. His thoughts were all jumbled up. He was jumping from one tread of thought to another faster than France could take his clothes off. As soon as the mental image formed, England grimaced, shivering a bit in disgust. That hasn't been his best idea. "Focus" He berated himself. He would get nothing done if his mind kept straying. "Focus"

Ignoring the tongues of flames that seemed to wrap around his body and dance on his skin, he mentally prepared himself. _God, I will tire myself to death with push-ups and sit-ups and some insane regime to get fit again as soon as I am out of here and rested_, he thought determinedly while slowly rising to his knees. The unforgiving stone floor dig on his flesh, and England was sure he was now sporting some brand new scrapped knees, but the Brit simply tried his best to stand on his own two feet.

And when he finally did it, it was with one rare but rather breathtaking grin stretching his lips. Face flushed from the exertion, limbs sore, labored breath, and dirty faced, England wasn't as scrubbed up, prim and proper, as he preferred nowadays, but he felt victorious. And happy with his accomplishment, small as it might be. "Who is old now?" He asked, puffing his chest out like a proud peacock "Who is an old man now?" He questioned again, louder.

Huffing, but with the hints of a smile still lingering on his lips, England decided to stop boasting and get the damn album while he could see straight and everything around him stayed crisp and clear. The last thing he wanted was meeting the floor face first for the third time in less than one – no, two – hours.

_Still 23:15 PM_, he thought drowsily happy, _I can have a nice enough rest yet_.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty" England said, snickering, while limping towards the blow-up bookcase – He knew he sounded like a lunatic, but he was euphoric in his joy at finally getting this _over with_. He was _so_ _damned close _he could practically _taste_ his magic dissolving; after being so tightly bound for so long – almost five decades – it had been hyper sensitive, and the sudden breach in the wards – even if made by England himself- had been enough to unleash it. Now, like smoke, it dissipated. He knew that he would have to take care of his own magic – the one in his body –, for it would now grow steadily without the need to feed the wards. But this wasn't neither here nor there.

Album first; sore limbs, broken glass, messy room, dirty clothes, and unchecked amounts of growing magic later. He stopped two feet away from the brown-leathered book. "I should schedule a consult later on with Doctor Albert, just to make sure I don't have sequels" England muttered. "Should... No, no, Must. Must schedule – Yes" He said, shaking his head despite the growing headache, and pressing his lips tight as he finally stared at the _thing_ at his feet.

It brought forth memories in his mind. Good and bad, and, as such, all bittersweet in nature. He chuckled dryly as he bent down – ignoring the pain stretching in his state caused – and collected the book, nursing it against his chest. It felt warm, from his magic most likely, and England's arms clutched it with more strength. As if he feared that otherwise it would disappear once again.

Now that he had it in his arms, he was a bit dazzled. Or maybe it was the blood loss. He couldn't exactly pinpoint with precision. His mind had fixed on one simple fact: he had the album in his arms. He had it. He could destroy it. "No, no, no" He whispered, knees buckling beneath him and head swimming "Not yet – not just yet"

With his blunt nails clawing as much as they could of the book, England licked his lips and turned his back to the destroyed bookcase, to the shattered glass, to his remaining fallen treasures. _I will clean it all later on_, he decided with wide green eyes staring at thin air. He didn't really know why he couldn't destroy the book _right fucking now_, but he supposed it was alright – he could do it any other time. Shaking his head, he resumed his way towards the stairs. Green eyes quickly focused and the Brit breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring widely. "God, I am messed up" He chuckled.

He was – most likely – just confused from the head-injury. And he knew that he was being overly emotional. Heck! He was feeling more now than he had felt since the_ fifties_, when all his colonies began to leave him! England assumed it had to do with the whole magical-explosion thingy. It must have done something to him, something he wouldn't be able to realize what it was just now, because he was dead on his feet – almost literally.

And as he entered his room and climbed up onto his bed, he could have sworn he heard the sound of something ripping. And a small pang on his chest that continuously grew until it almost made him double over let the Englishman thinking that those might be the aftereffects of what happened downstairs; at the basement. A couple of tears slid down his cheeks before the blond fell asleep in pain – more pain than he had felt in a really long time.

It would only be the day after that he would realize the pain's source. While England, however, lay in his bed, still pain-free for the most part, with the book pressed so hard to his chest he was sure a rectangular mark would be left in its' place, he knew nothing and, thus, suspected nothing. His lips twisted in the parody of a smile, and wondered, briefly, if his nightmares would be better or worse than the nights' before.

And, so, he fell asleep.

.-.-.-.

"I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares."  
(Mark Z. Danielewski, _House of Leaves_)

There was nothing but pure dusk around him. But he could see it clearly, its form crooking and shaping, stretching and rounding – ever changing. And he could see it clearly, even though it was as dark as their surroundings.

He was running, from who – or what – he wasn't certain. But he knew that he needed to get away. And fast. And that was enough. He knew he had to trust his gut. It was the reason he had survived for so long. The reason he could still walk on this Earth. The reason he had been victorious so many times.

As such, he would keep running. And running. _And running_. Running until his legs gave up and faltered underneath his body. Running until his lungs burnt and even breathing was hard. Running until he couldn't run anymore and would inevitably succumb to the thing – monster, man, fellow nation – that pursued him.

**"******!"** It called **"******!"**

England cursed. And put more strength behind each strike of his leg, wishing that he had more power; that he was at his peak. Because then he would have been able to out-run this thing. Then he wouldn't have to feel the darkness shaping to his limbs, making grotesque shackles that twisted around his legs and tried to close around them. _Tried to imprison him_. No! He wouldn't – _couldn't_ fall so easily! _NO NO NO NO NO NO_!

And so he kept on evading the black cuffs, leaping out of their reach. Soon, though, he felt the strain on his legs. **"******"** It kept calling, trying to lure England, its voice changing, passing through a variety of ranges – voices England knew quite well. Voices he wished he no longer could recognize. Better to forget his mistakes and his pains and his hurt and these voices; all of them associated and intertwined. And then it settled on one that was well-known by England. His second eldest brothers voice - Scotland. With its gruff and raspy tenor, it made cold sweat glide down England's brows. He had wronged the man, and the man had wronged him many a-times too. Now, they rarely talked. And when they did, it was with their fists. A troublesome relationship, no doubt.

He now knew he was dreaming, at least. And that it would be – by far – one of his worst dreams – or nightmares – yet. _He just knew_. Same as he knew when War was brewing. Or when France was 'bout to make a lewd comment. "Bloody hell" He muttered, fists clenching while he tried to put more and more distance between himself and the thing.

"**USELESS, ******! NO ESCAPING THIS TI-ME**!" It laughed.

Tights trembling, England cursed once more under his breath. He was going to be caught. There was no way out. And by the crackling and maniacal laugh behind him, it knew that as well. "Bastard" England growled, voice cracking a bit in the end.

Truth was, he didn't know what would happen if he was caught. And he didn't like not knowing things. It could be dangerous, it could destroy him – it could be a lot of things or do a lot of damage. And England, who loved to brag about knowing a whole lot of things, wasn't so sure he actually wanted to know what would happen if he was caught. No, ma'am. So he pushed himself beyond the limits of his body.

_Beyond. Beyond. Beyond._

But them his legs gave up. And he fell. And although he knew the dream (nightmare?) to be some sick conjecture put together by his own traitorous mind… It hurt. And it hurting got England scared, for now he knew _the thing could hurt him_. And even if he was no strange to pain – or death, or torture, for that matter – he sure as hell could keep on living his tremendously long life without them, thank you very much. He had had enough of them for lifetimes.

Before the Englishman could even to phantom a scream, though, darkness swept over him. Flashing lime green and golden eyes were the last thing he saw, and a continuous chant of **"*****N!"** was the last thing England heard. And then he knew no more.

~oOo~

If before there had been no light what-so-ever, now there was an overwhelming amount of it. "Fuck" England swore, hands covering his watering eyes "Son of a bitch!"

Blinking, he muttered angrily under his breath. With a firm scowl, England glanced around, body taut and ready for an assault on the thing's part. "Come out, you wanker!" He provoked "Too afraid to show your ugly snout, git?!"

It may be stupid to string the guy – thing – It – _whatever_ up, but the Brit could (couldn't?) care less. Or maybe he was being just being plain stupid. When he felt something cold and sticky wrapping around his throat, he fought. Viciously. Bravely. It mattered not, however. He was far too weakened by his last ditch efforts to fight. Soon, he was held by the scruff of his shirt, toes barely scratched the ground. With a purple face and bulging eyes, England glared as fiercely as he could.

Then, the Brit did the only thing he could in such a pinch: he cursed. And then he tried to claw the thing's arms or whatever it was that was holding him. Again, no such luck. But it did not discourage England. "Fu...ck, _you_." He whizzed out.

**"*****N, Why? STO-OP. ****ON. YOU! NEVER AGAIN. ****ON!" **It screamed, shaking England as if he was but a naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

And when he thought he might as well just bloody die (because he felt pathetic at the thought of losing to something in his own _effing_ mind). The thing let go of his throat, and the Brit fell ungracefully to the floor. "Bloody-" He started, massaging his throat, but as soon as he took in the new scenery around him, he wished...

**"********ON WILL LEARN"**

**"****NEVER. FORGET. NOT AGAIN, ***ION!"**

He wished the thing had just finished him off. Really.

It would have been more merciful. It would have been kinder. But, he supposed, kind didn't seem exactly what the thing was aiming.

Because, now, stretching before him was his worst nightmare. And the one he feared to have every night. Gurgling at the taste of blood in his mouth – and realizing that biting his own tongue would not get him out of this – England stared. Hard and keenly, as if to engrave the images conjured from Hell to his mind – burn them onto his brain, "Holy Mary".

Bright – blue, and green, and amethyst, and onyx, and amber, and brown, and…, and… – eyes stared right back. "_Shitte_"

~oOo~

"Mom!" The first green-eyed boy shouted, running towards England. And the Brit, dazzled, caught him mid-air, securely holding the rambunctious child on his hip. "MOM!"

Australia. It could only be Australia with the brown hair, neatly combed behind but for two curls, and the scrap on his nose. Mouth hanging open, England snapped his head to the right when he heard a familiar giggle. "Seychelles" He whispered, gaze locked onto the small girl – no older than five – with twin-pigtails, blue dress and carefree smile.

"Sweetie?" He asked, uncertain, but willing to…

"Papa" A small boy – Canada, England belatedly recognized – called "Are you alright?"

Giving a slight nod, though his head and thoughts were elsewhere, England squeezed the life out of Australia. Was he real? The indignant squeak seemed to suggest so. But this was a dream – A dream. _Nightmare_. _Right_? Of course it wasn't real. But they all seemed so... They smiled, and giggled, and looked so... _Breathtakingly real_.

He could see most of them. Australia and New Zealand, the later glaring at the Aussie in his arms, Seychelles, Canada and America, Hong-Kong, India, Cameroon, Wy, Sealand, South Africa, Egypt, and- And so many others. His chest hurt just at looking at all of these children who were once his, their round and innocent faces. His _children_. His _colonies_. And, now, neither.

The Age of Empires was long past. The World now walked another path, one more just and fairer than the old ways could never hope to be. Truthfully, it was better this way. His children – colonies – doesn't matter – left the nest. And that was _fine_. England was _fine_. Everything was…

Oh! Who was he trying to kid? Clutching Australia tighter against his chest, he scooped New Zealand up as well. His hands trembled. And if he could see them, he was sure the knuckles would be as white as his face; ashen-like, he would bet. "What are you doing here?" He asked as nonchalantly as possible. His eyes greedily drinking in the sight of the little colonies, whom eagerly approached him. Shrill squeals and shouts for his attention followed, and his question seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. He, for once, did not mind at all.

It wasn't long before he sat on the ground and entertained the children. From time to time he would say 'How I have missed you', and they would answer 'We will never leave, mommy'. He put two and two together and assumed 'mommy' came from 'Motherland'. He preferred that to the only other logical explanations, that ranged from them confusing him for a woman (Unacceptable as he was clearly male, and damned proud of it) to thinking of him on a mothering role (Which he would feel quite flattered about, to be truthful).

Even though he knew it wasn't real, he permitted himself to get lost in it. And the fear he had when he first laid eyes on the children was all but gone. Dream or not, it was the best fucking thing that happened to him in a handful of decades.

As such, he should have known it was much too good to be true.

While he played with America, he did notice the kid's changing speech pattern; from 'Engwand' to 'England'. Not only this, but he could also see the way America seemed to be growing farther and farther apart from the group.

And growing – Dear God, was he growing. With trepidation England accompanied as America's body suffered a growth spurt and sprinted upwards like a Chinese blasted bamboo. It was all too familiar for him to pretend it was anything but **_that_**. The distasteful looks the American now sent his way all but made the Brit recoil. Oh God, please, _NO_! This would be cruel, too cruel, he mused with dread. He knew, however, what was to unfold, and it did not make him feel any better. "America" He approached the blue-eyed boy, no, young man "Is everything alright, lad?"

The absolutely vile look he sent England broke the Englishman's heart. But he didn't back down. If there is something he was known for, it was for not backing down. Ever. He proved it in World War II, did he not? Scowling, he asked again what was wrong. This time more forcibly. "What is wrong, America?"

This, he supposed, was his first mistake. He walked right into whatever trap _It_ had laid.

~oOo~

"War is hell" is a phrase supposedly delivered by William Tecumseh Sherman, a North-American Major General who served in their Civil War, to a graduating class of the Michigan Military Academy, in June of 1879. And on April of 1880, the same man addressed a crowd of more than 10,000 at Columbus, Ohio, and repeated: "There is many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all hell."

England rarely heard wiser words. Because War is **Hell**, and War is **Ugly**. And the Brit, although loving to battle and spar, to have near-to-death combats, soon learnt to absolutely despise war. For war killed his people and razed his lands. It brought naught but disgrace and calamity in its wake.

There were no winners when it came to war. Boys barely out of their diapers, still stinking of milk, were dressed in garbs and sent to die. They were only 18, children yet, but it mattered not in war. And mothers wept for their sons. And they also wept for their husbands. And soon enough children would cry for their never-returning fathers and brothers. And England himself would mourn for his brave citizens, who died in his name.

There were no winners. Period.

The smell of gunpowder and rain and mud all mixed in together hit him full in the face, and for a second England seriously considered shooting himself. End it all and such bullshit. But he did not. He simply stared dumbly at the North-American in front of him. Thinking about how nice it would have been if these kinds of conflict were about who could throw more flowers at whom or who could drink tea faster or something equally pleasant. Why couldn't they simply talk things through?

Alas, he knew why. Some problems simply couldn't be resolved with diplomacy. Quite a shame, if he was truthful. They had tried that with Germany after World War II, and where had it left them?

Surprisingly, his eyes were dry. And England knew they wouldn't remain so for much longer. The blue-eyed man in front of him, with such a determined gaze, would not allow so. And he knew his own people were tired of these conflicts. To them, the Thirteen Colonies were nothing but a piece of land sucking away their money. A piece of land they kept by paying taxes. And His Majesty George III was getting tired as well, as was the parliament.

He had no army with him this time. And America had one, big and ready to fight. With a sad smile he wondered why the American suspected nothing. He could see the somewhat surprised and calculating gazes of France, Prussia and Spain on him. The feral need for retribution was quenched. For now, at the very least. Those three, however... Those three England would make sure knew the horror of his wrath.

Without his consent, his body surged forward, musket ready. He attacked. And America's musket all but flew from the child's hands. With shallow breaths he took in the scene laid before him. The flash of fear in America's blue-eyes, eyes that had been so smug – so confident – not even five minutes ago, made England cringe. He didn't want this. Why did America had to go and revolt? Why couldn't they just pay the damn taxes? Why- Why- Why?

Silly boy. The Brit's lips trembled and his hands shook as he positioned the musket right in between those frightened blue-eyes. This was his boy. His little brother, damn it. The one he taught how to fight and how to use a gun; how to read and write; how to dance and ride a horse; how to- How to do so many things. The one he built wooden toys for, the ones he learnt to knit and embroider for. "America- Give up"

He was pleading as much as he was ordering. But England knew America wouldn't give up. And that he would be the one giving in. Because his people wanted him to – his King wanted him to – and because he couldn't hurt the boy in front of him. He would rather sever his own hand. He had lived through the American Revolution once, and it had been downright awful. A second time wasn't any better. It was akin to torture. Then America said the blasted words, renounced England as his family.

And England never could quite forgive the American for that slight.

His body became heavy, so bloody heavy that he couldn't stand, not on his two feet. And thus he fell. Fell like a puppet which the strings had been cut. Useless. _Oh. Father have mercy!_, he wished to shout to the heavens as he saw the American's lips part once again.

He hid his face, hands trying – and failing – to cover his now tear stricken cheeks. It was all happening a second time, and he could change nothing. His body viciously shaking with each sob as the American turned his back and –victoriously – walked away.

"You used to be so big"

These words didn't pain him as much at the time as they did now. How was it possible? Why was the pain so intense? Why it seemed like his heart was being stabbed again and again and again by a blunt knife? It wasn't anything like he remembered. Yes, it hurt, but- Was it because he was reliving it (even though he had no control of his body)? Was it the Things' work? Maybe… Some kind of _witchcraft_? Sorcery? … _Magic_?

**"*****LBION! *LBION! *LBION!" **It screeched. Mad. So very mad.

But England couldn't hear… couldn't think. He didn't want to think. None of that. None of that. He didn't know how long he stayed there, on the ground, on the mud. Pathetic. Crying like a baby. Like a child. A failure. He had had the chance. And he missed it. If he could do it all over again... He would have missed it all the same. And – somehow – he hated himself for it. Hated this weakness. Fool. Stupid. Weak. Pathetic. Shameful. "GOD!"

**"****DO YOU SEE? **BION? UNDERSTAND?"**

**"****YOUR FAULT, ALBION! ALBION! ****_ALBION_****!" **

He looked up, staring straight at the thing. It now changed; the shape, the form, and the voice. It wasn't long before acidic green eyes – his own eyes, he realized – stared back at him. A sorrowful expression stretched in the Things' face – A face much like his own.

England's lips trembled before setting in a firm line. And a single word passed them:

"Why?"

**"****Because you forgot us, M'lord"**

Afterwards, the Englishman would admit he could've lived without such an answer. But when all things around them suddenly disappeared from sight once again, England couldn't help but curse first and foremost.

~oOo~

Darkness plunged inside him, merciless. Something else he couldn't quite put his finger on, but was at the tip of his tongue, mixed in together with the darkness. None of it was vile or disgusting or made him feel dirty. It was rather like an old friend... One he hadn't seen for years. One he had shunned and ignored. And now it was angry, so it attacked, and it squeezed painfully, and it didn't forgive quite so easily. Clearly, it was pissed – resentful – raging. But there was an edge... An edge of loneliness, of sadness, of abandonment. A lost child. A terrified animal. A fragile thing. England knew... What it was... He was sure... But... No, not possible. With a horrified feeling growing inside him, he tried to touch. He wanted to – no, needed to – feel it. Make sure. Breathing hard, he felt his surroundings bubbling around him, growing. England screamed, he didn't want to go. He wanted to freaking find out what – get to the bottom of this. He needed to. _Needed_.

But the next thing he heard was the sound of people screaming, shouting at the tops of their lungs. The putrid smell of Death, the cold grip of such unyielding force, was excruciating. What language were they screaming at? Frowning, England tried to place it.

"Fuck" He breathed out, finally putting the pieces together. "_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._"

He was in India. Which war unraveled before him, he did not know. There had been many. But he knew one thing: after America he had been crueler in the battle field. Any of his colonies that dared to challenge his power had been dealt with quickly and efficiently. As long as they remained submissive, they were fine. And he doted on them like any proud parent would. But on the battlefield... "No, please. _No_, God, no no no no no."

India was there, right in front of him. Scowling fiercely with determined a glint in his eyes. His weapon was ready, his muscles tense. And England knew he probably was a mirror of his child. His lips pulled in a cold smirk, and the Brit (unwilling, at least in his mind) charged. Beneath the toe-curling screams, the dying breaths of man alike, the deep scowls and muscles stringed, the hurtful words and accusations; England's cry – forced to relieve the worst memories he had, the ones where he somehow hurt his children and was hurt, the ones where they lost their trust on him, the ones where he pushed them away – went unheard.

And the Englishman worst nightmare to date had barely begun.

~oOo~

A/N: Hello, there! I'm very sorry for the long wait. This isn´t even a new chapter. I just… Rewrote the second chapter because I was a bit unsatisfied with my last attempt. Still not fully satisfied, but… It'll have to do for now. Changed a few things, took some out, rephrased most of the things… Got lazy towards the end (kidding!). I already started to write chapter three, but I'm busy, so I won't promise a date. Hopefully, though, BEFORE the end of the year. Maybe. One can hope. I will try my best to aim for November. See ya!

Posted: 04/08/2014

Last edited: 14/10/2015

_Thank you for Reading, Favouriting and/or Following!_


	3. Author Note (aka AN)

Heyya!

So, I rewrote chapter two.

You don't need to read if you don't want to... There were no major changes. I wouldn't be so mean. Just wanted to say that I began to work on chapter three. And I'm hoping I will be able to post it in November. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky. Thanks for reading/following/favoriting and everything.

For those curious about chapter three: This is how it starts:

**Disclaimer: Axis Power Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**Warnings**: Curse words, mentions of torture (not yet), others.

~o~

CHAPTER THREE

"Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart."

(Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_)

The covers of his bed were trashed and bloodied. Much like his own body, he supposed. Gashes littered his arms and torso, and as England approached his living room, a cabinet exploded. Cabinets (and drawers, for that matter) had been exploding left, right and center since he woke up. He could only attribute such to the fact that: (a) his magic's reserves were full to the brim and overflowing, unlike these past few decades, and (b) he had no control over his magic due to years gone without practice on its full potential. Scowling, he tightened his hold on the album, glaring at the offending object, cause of so many sorrows.

He should have destroyed it as soon as he had put his hands on it. It certainly would have saved him many troubles. "Bloody thing" He grumbled under his breath, shaking the album a bit as if the simple action could inflict some damage on the thing. Immediately, he regretted the action. A memory, long forgotten, seemed to flash right before his eyes. Instead of a book, he held a child in his clutches. The olive skin was ashen in fear and clammy from the cold sweat that glistened her body.

~o~

See ya!


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